An Echo

It’s hard to believe, but this past winter it was twenty years since Peter’s death. Despite wanting to remember him on his birthday and not on the day he died, this year was different and I was aware of this ominous anniversary. Some people ask me why do I want to remember him at all? I like to think of all the delightful things he brought into my life: guitar music, opera, some of his friends who have stayed faithful through widowhood (this is fodder for its own post). What I miss most of all is the echo.

When a couple is together for a long time—almost twenty-five years we were—when one speaks the other agrees or adds to the story, even if they disagree, there is like an echo between them. One starts a sentence and the other ends it. Or one starts telling an anecdote and the other adds details or remembers it a different way. I think this is why I continue to write; I want my voice to linger in the readers’ minds; I want to hear their comments.

Peter was funny, I loved his sense of humor. He used to say that I was a cheap date, but an expensive wife. I used to pay my own way when we were dating, but when we married, I wanted a new home, a summer place, and trips abroad. I was like a swan, he told me; so cool and collected on the surface, but pedaling fast as hell underneath.

I just wanted to have an intimate family gathering with my daughters and his sister to remember him in this anniversary, but all the snow this year got in the way. I was alone on a Sunday and I listened on YouTube to Alan Harler’s Memorial at Temple University, one of his friends I inherited. I recognized many of the pieces Alan composed, which we had heard in previous concerts. The same day I heard on the radio the Philadelphia Orchestra play Handel’s Messiah—despite being Jewish, Peter loved Christian music—and I realized I had the memorial I wanted all by myself, I had been hearing Peter’s echo all day.

I make his recipes, like Russian Tea Room Borscht. On New Year’s Day, we used to have an open house for friends and family to go to the Mummers Parade and served a big pot of borscht with pumpernickel bread all day long. I still love fried matzos for breakfast, even if I cheat and serve it with bacon. I wasn’t a Shiksa for nothing.

I remember the day he took us to the Met in New York City to hear The Magic Flute. Didi got all dressed up in a long skirt, it was my daughters’ first opera. I can’t hear Papageno’s lyrics without smiling. I can’t hear “che gelida manina” from La bohème or the overture of La Traviata without crying. He would be proud to know that I go to the Met Simulcasts and I have my own favorite opera now, Ainadamar on the life of García Lorca by Golijov. He was always more of a classicist than I am.

He was such a techie, he would have loved Apple watches, Apps, an iPhone, streaming films, GPS, reading digital newspapers, any new gadget… He would have loved hearing President Obama singing “Amazing Grace” in South Carolina in 2016. He would have loved seeing the grandchildren graduate from college. He would have loved another trip to Italy like the one Jane and I took last fall or another trip to Spain like the one I’m planning this summer. He would have loved playing Granada by Albéniz for my Spanish relatives one more time. He has missed so much but his echo, remains.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, March 17th, 2026 at 12:45 pm by conchaalborg and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.